


Ruckus

by mycanonnevercame



Series: tiny fluffy fics [5]
Category: The Punisher (TV 2017)
Genre: BAMF Karen Page, F/M, It’s been so long since I posted a fic that I can’t remember how to tag, Minor Violence, Reunited and It Feels So Good, pistol whipping, post tps1
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-12
Updated: 2020-11-12
Packaged: 2021-03-10 03:40:44
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 524
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27527806
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mycanonnevercame/pseuds/mycanonnevercame
Summary: Frank’s day starts like any other, but ends in the best way possible
Relationships: Frank Castle/Karen Page
Series: tiny fluffy fics [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1754281
Comments: 6
Kudos: 43





	Ruckus

**Author's Note:**

> I have barely written anything in weeks but yesterday the Kastle fam was on fire over on the tumble dot com and it Inspired Me. I was trying to go to sleep but this fic popped into my head practically fully formed so instead of sleeping I wrote it down. 
> 
> I miss these idiots so much it hurts. All my love to my Kastle fam

He doesn’t plan it. The day that Frank finally stops fighting and gives in to his feelings for Karen starts like any other.

He wakes at the asscrack of dawn to the sound of his coffee maker burbling. Sucks down two cups before he really qualifies as conscious, dresses, makes the bed. He heads for work, a huge thermos with more coffee tucked under his arm with his lunch box and that day’s _Bulletin_.

It’s a boring day at the construction site, but it passes quickly enough. He showers when he gets home, washing the dust and sweat from his skin. He lingers more than normal in the hot water, idly thinking about what he wants to make for dinner.

Alone in his kitchen, Frank stares into his fridge, and he’s suddenly overcome with the— _sameness_ of his life. He doesn’t miss his vigilante days, but at least he was never bored. He scoffs at himself and closes the fridge. It can’t hurt to switch up the routine a little bit, though, so he stomps into his boots and goes out into the falling darkness, aiming for the diner the next block over.

It would be just like any other day, except—

There’s a ruckus.

Scuffling sounds beckon from the alley he’s passing, the scrape of a shoe on concrete, a woman’s angry voice, echoing strangely in the confines of the alley. If it wasn’t for that shout, Frank’s not sure he’d investigate, but he’s never left a woman to fend for herself before and he’s not about to start now.

Which is how he finds himself standing in an alley, watching Karen pistol-whip some shmuck who was too stupid to realize she’s not the type you mess with lightly.

Her attacker (a source who got too familiar, he’ll find out later) crumples to the ground, and Karen turns toward Frank. She looks glorious, feet planted wide in her heels as she stands over her victim, the light from the nearest streetlight turning her hair to gold. They both stare at each other for a moment, Karen’s expression turning from righteous indignation to surprise to something softer.

“Frank.”

There’s no mistaking the genuine pleasure in her voice, and it hits Frank all at once that he doesn’t want to walk away from her this time. He takes a step, then another, feeling more certain the smaller the space between them becomes.

He forces himself to stop with one step left to go, and meets Karen’s questioning glance steadily.

“Can I walk you home?” His voice is a rasp in the quiet of the alley, and he means so much more than the simple question asks. He waits, his heart thundering in his ears, for her answer, praying he’s not too late.

Karen smiles, and it’s a glass of water in the desert, the sun after a storm, achingly hopeful and lovely. “I thought you’d never ask,” she says. She holsters her gun and slips her hand into his, her fingers soft against his scarred skin.

He stares at their joined hands in awe, and then she gives a little tug, and leads him home.


End file.
